My sister had chanclas
made of rusty braids of sepia leather.
The ends of embroidery were frayed,
and the clasp had been molded permanently
to the third hole of the strap.
The undersole ridges were worn flat,
and the concrete would make a scratching shuffle noise
when she walked.
The oil of her feet pressed a perfect footprint
into the sole.
When my mom threw them away,
she snuck into the trashcan
and dug them out.